


Dinner Reservation for Twelve

by SapphoIsBurning



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Cooking, Dinner, Food, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:00:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21844300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphoIsBurning/pseuds/SapphoIsBurning
Summary: Early in his career, Winston teaches John to love a good dinner party. Or a bad one. They all have their value.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Dinner Reservation for Twelve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dryad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/gifts).



“Assassins love dinner parties,” Winston said.

“No,” John said. “They can’t. I don’t.” He blinked a few times as if to disagree further.

“You’re still new,” Winston said. He swirled the wine around the bottom of his glass.

“I love...blending in to dinner parties,” John said. “There’s a lot of cover.”

“That’s not what I said,” Winston insisted. “When else do you get to show off their knife work to anyone who will be alive to remember?” He gestured at a frenched rack of lamb on the banquet table of the stately Edwardian home they sat in. “Marcus did that himself.”

“Huh,” John said. He sipped bourbon from a short glass with a heavy, round bottom. 

“The further you move up in your organization, the more important this is,” Winston said. “Someday, you’re going to have to wine and dine someone.”

“And do it well,” Marcus said, coming into the dining room with a tray of individual cheese soufflés, puffed gently over the top of their ramekins. “Winston, what’s the worst dinner you’ve ever been to.”

“Well, there was East Berlin in ‘83,” Winston said. “Soviet vodka, smuggled caviar, and concrete furniture. Everything smelled like feet and I couldn’t wait to get out.”

“What about Prague? We waited to eat for two hours before anyone realized the kitchen staff had fled in terror because they thought we were there for an assassination.”

“Weren’t you?” John asked.

“Yes, but we wanted to eat first,” Winston said with a matter of fact gesture.

“You can’t always fight your way out of a situation,” Marcus said. “Here, take a soufflé.” He was wearing oven mitts that said “World’s Best Uncle” and a gray ruffled apron over his three piece suit.

“The Russka Roma have taught you nothing,” Winston said.

John’s eyes widened slightly. “Don’t let them hear you say that.”

“Eat your soufflé, kid,” Marcus chided. He handed John a spoon with a curiously sharp edge. 

John dug in.

***

The black bakelite phone in John’s apartment rang. He sprang to answer it.

“John?”

“Winston?”

“I need help preparing dinner for twelve.” Winston’s voice was bleary though it wasn’t early.

“Should I get the plastic sheeting?” John asked.

“Not that kind of reservation,” Winston said. “Some high ranking members of the Camorra are visiting our territories, and we’ve been asked to entertain.”

“Aren’t there restaurants for that sort of thing?” John asked.

“This is a test, John,” Winston said. “I’m being tested. I need your help. And you need practice.”

“I’ll get my knives then?” John said.

“That’s the spirit,” Winston said. “And I have a shopping list for you to get on the way.”

***

John arrived at Winston’s home the same time Marcus strolled up with two bouquets of flowers under his arms.

“Marcus,” John said in greeting.

“I hear we have some work to do,” Marcus said with a grin and began whistling a tune John didn’t recognize.

“I’d rather be on door duty,” John said, “But Winston said it was important.”

“The most important night of his life,” Marcus said, and raised his eyebrows.

They went in and went through a large hall and dining room into a corridor that led to a gleaming kitchen. John dropped his packages on the counter.

“Let me introduce you to your target, John,” Winston called from the other side of the kitchen.

John felt momentary relief as he turned the corner, but he saw Winston gesturing to a whole side of lamb laid out on the table.

“Anatomy is anatomy,” Winston said. “I can’t believe your people didn’t start you on carving up beef first.”

“Huh,” John said. But he got out a set of knives from inside his jacket and chose one long and narrow, for separating bone from muscle.

“You’ll need this.” Winston handed him a bone saw. “Don’t worry, I cleaned it.”

John grimaced and got to work, following Winston’s direction to prepare substantially more cuts of meat than they could possibly be cooking tonight.

“Is this a test?”

“Of course it is, kid. Finish frenching those ribs and you’ll pass with flying colors.”

“And then I’m done?”

“And then you’re making dessert.”

***

John stared at Marcus’s pastry station.

“What is this?”

“It’s an old recipe from a friend in the SAS,” Marcus said. “He’s mostly gone into private security now, which somehow affords him a lot of baking time. Dice these quince for me.”

John’s station in life hadn’t afforded him many opportunities to turn down work, so he got to dicing.

“Do you regret your line of work?” John asked while slicing the crisp yellow fruit with one of his own knives.

“Never,” Marcus said, measuring out flour and sugar. “The time spent working is what buys me time for baking. And birdwatching, and music, and art, and everything else good in life.”

John was silent as he cut up fruit. As he finished, he watched Marcus work the mixture with his fingers, deftly, until it formed a sandy texture that seemed to magically turn into dough.

“If you’re that impressed by pâte sablée, you need more beauty in your life, kid,” Marcus sighed.

***

More people arrived to help as the day went on and soon the house was transformed into a warm, lively home, ready to receive guests. John had been instructed to change into a suit and was thrust into the parlor as the door opened: the company had arrived.

“Buon giorno,” John said in his best terrible Italian. “Bienvenutto.”

The D’Antonio family walked in. The two heirs had their noses in the air and the boy tossed his coat at John, who caught it deftly.

The broad-shouldered man behind them had to be Signore D’Antonio. This was only the second time John had met a member of the high table. He stood up straight. “Welcome, signore.”

The man made eye contact with John and nodded deeply. John felt like he was being weighed and measured. He handed John his coat and greeted Winston in turn, kissing him on both cheeks and embracing him. John hung up the coats and tried to imagine a future where he’d be kissed on the cheek by a member of the high table. It was hard to picture.

***

The lamb was good. Marcus’s souffles were well-received, and dessert was even better.

John was seated next to Santino at the dinner table.

“Our help doesn’t dine with us,” Santino sniffed.

“Good thing I’m not very helpful,” John said.

Santino didn’t know what to say to that. He straightened his napkin in his lap. They ate a course of cheese while John tried to make mental notes of all the things Winston did to put his guests at ease: telling stories, making them comfortable, being a competent man in all ways so they could relax. Could John ever be like that? Did he want to?

The wine made the courses fly by. Soon Santino was slurring his words and making grand claims about his future that John nodded politely at. John was not good at imagining his life a year into the future, let alone ten, twenty. Where would he be then? Head of security? Head of pastry? It was all a blur.

Signore D’Antonio clinked his glass to get the room’s attention. Everyone fell silent.

“Grazie, Mister Winston, for a lovely dinner, a safe refuge for my family in these difficult times for the Camorra. Given the recent difficulties with the New York Continental, you have our full support in your bid to become the new Manager.”

John took in a breath silently. Was that what this was all about? Hospitality, at high stakes, at all costs?

Winston smiled and got up to shake his new patron’s hand. Marcus made significant eye contact at John across the table. Maybe assassins loved dinners because they were never just dinners. They were transactions. They were ceremonies.

And sometimes, the dessert was quite good.


End file.
